


But All I Have Is All that Is Gone

by Taste_is_Sweet



Series: Soldiers of Fire and Shadows [7]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Claire Temple is a Saint, Crossover, Families of Choice, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hydra are dicks, Illya Kuryakin Needs a Hug, Protective Illya, So is Oleg, Title Change, because hydra, the russian crossover no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 03:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10778631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/pseuds/Taste_is_Sweet
Summary: "I have to leave," Illya says. He glances at Oleg, who gives him a single, tiny nod. "They need me at K.G.B..""Why?" Napoleon looks exactly as bewildered, furious and afraid as Gaby feels. "Why now? We almost get shot by a sniper this afternoon and suddenly, after six years, they've just decided to take you?" His expression goes black. "No. I'm not standing for this. I'm calling Waverly." He goes towards the phone on the coffee table."Soldat," Oleg says, as if that's truly what Illya is. As if it's his name.Illya grabs Napoleon's wrist with a bandaged hand as he picks up the phone. "Don't. There is no point. He cannot change this." He glances back at his handler, who gives him another tiny nod.Gaby feels like she's in a movie where she doesn't know her lines.





	But All I Have Is All that Is Gone

**Author's Note:**

> I've changed the title, because it was too similar to the previous story. The new title comes from the song [Feather On the Clyde](https://youtu.be/NcMGsx0-rh4) by Passenger. It's even sadder than [Black](https://youtu.be/M7L4I5MQnJo), which is always appropriate for fucked-up Super Soldiers.
> 
> Passenger is one hell of a songwriter, but I do not recommend listening to him unless you don't mind your mood crashing like a reprogrammed Hydra helicarrier.
> 
> The events here happen directly after [When There's Nothing Left to Burn](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5788855).
> 
> This story fills the **Isolation** square of my [Hurt/Comfort Bingo](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/) [Card](http://taste-is-sweet.livejournal.com/99391.html).

Illya doesn't arrive at their backup rendezvous until ten to midnight, pale and blank-eyed with his knuckles broken and his hands covered in blood.

He insists he's fine, won't tell them _anything_ , but he doesn't argue when Gaby tows him into the bathroom of the safehouse to clean and bandage his hands. She knows they'll heal—Illya always heals, even from wounds that should kill him—but she's never seen him this badly hurt when it wasn't inflicted by someone else.

Illya's rages are no secret, but he's never come back bleeding like this, never fallen victim to such rampant, heedless self-destruction. What happened to him that was so terrible he could only deal with it though this kind of pain?

"What happened, Illya?" Napoleon asks him, echoing her thoughts. He's acting as Gaby's nurse, handing her gauze and alcohol, and using his lighter to sterilize needles so she can stitch Illya's wounds. Napoleon already burned through his fury, snapping like a dog about Illya's selfish, asinine stupidity, as if he hadn't spent the entire wait for him restless with fear. He's much gentler now, cajoling instead of belligerent, for all the good it will do. "You knew that person in the window, didn't you? Who were they? What did they want with us?"

"They wanted nothing with you. It was me," Illya says. He's watching Gaby sew his skin together, but the only sign it hurts is in the muscles bunching at the triangles of his jaw.

"What? Why?" Gaby finishes, waits for Napoleon to cut the thread, then starts bandaging Illya's hands. "Illya, please. What's going on. Who was that?"

"I really think we should know if someone from your dark, mysterious K.G.B. past is trying to kill you, Peril," Napoleon says. "We'd miss your taciturn looming." His voice is light, but he has his hand on the back of Illya's neck, leaning in far closer than he needs to. If anything, he was more afraid for him than she was.

"He was not trying to kill me." Illya doesn't look at either of them. He keeps his eyes fixed on the bright, white bandages as she wraps his hands. "And he is not from K.G.B.."

"He's not?" Napoleon asks, genuinely surprised. "But, then why…?"

"Then why did you destroy your hands if you didn't know him?" Gaby says what Napoleon won't. She's never been squeamish, and most of the time delicacy will get you nowhere anyway. Especially not with Illya.

"I did not say I didn't know him." Illya abruptly pulls his hands away and stands, leaving a bandage strip dangling. "Thank you. But I do not want to talk about it."

Gaby and Napoleon exchange a look as Illya stalks out of the room.

"Well, that was enlightening," Napoleon says.

Gaby swears to herself under her breath in German as she repacks the first aid kit. When she's finished she shoves the box at Napoleon and marches into the main area of the suite. Illya is, unsurprisingly, sitting in an armchair, staring at the chessboard on the coffee table. He's managed to tie off the bandage himself, and now both his hands are curled together and tucked against his lips.

His full attention is focused on a single, white pawn he's moved two spaces out of its line in front of a knight. It's an odd move. Knights can jump over other pieces; they don't need clear rows. In fact, all Illya's done is make the knight vulnerable to attack, a surprisingly stupid move for a chess champion. If he weren't the only one playing she'd wonder if he'd purposely set himself up to lose.

Napoleon comes in behind her, still holding the first aid kit. He can see the same wrongness here that she can, with the knight uselessly exposed. "What is he doing?"

"How should I know?" Very little that Illya's done has made sense since the flash of light in the window.

"Peril?"

Illya doesn't so much as glance at him, but a moment later he slaps the board so violently it and all the pieces go flying. He curls forward, putting his elbows on his knees and his face against this palms. A red stain spreads through the bandages on his right hand.

"All right, that's enough." Gaby pushes the table aside with her foot so see can get in front of him. She pulls his hands away from his face, grimacing at the blood. "You've opened your stitches."

"They will heal," he says. His eyes are bleak as winter.

"I know that," she tsks. "But now it will scar. And you undid all my work."

"Not to mention smashing an innocent chess set." Napoleon bends to scoop one of the white pieces off the rug, then places it into Illya's free hand, folding his fingers over it. It's the knight. "What happened, Illya?" he asks again, far more calmly than Gaby feels capable of at the moment. "Who is this knight you put in danger?"

Gaby blinks at him, then looks at Illya. "Is someone in danger, Illya?"

He swallows. "I don't know. I can't…." He stops, looking down at the chess piece he starts rolling between his hands. "I don't know what's real anymore."

"What are you talking about? Of course you do." Napoleon spreads his hands, encompassing the space around them. "You're real, we're real, this safehouse is real…. The only thing that isn't real right now is our cover identities. And they've probably been blown anyway, considering how easily your knight found us."

Illya just shakes his head, still rolling the chess piece in his hands.

"Illya?" Gaby crouches, putting her hands on his knees. It's not a comfortable position but at least she can see his face. "What do you mean, you don't know what's real?"

He takes a breath that shudders through him like a storm. "Have you done something you know is good, but…felt bad? Wrong?"

"Of course I have," Gaby says. "The last time was when I betrayed you both to Uncle Rudi to make him trust me." She glances at Napoleon, but if he sees the apology in her eyes he ignores it. "I had to do that. But I hated it."

"I've done a lot of things that felt right but were definitely _bad_ ," Napoleon says pleasantly. He sits on the arm of the couch, close enough to Illya that his knee brushes Illya's thigh. "But not the other way around."

"C.I.A. and U.N.C.L.E. use you like whore," Illya says without looking at him. "That must feel bad."

She's sure he's not trying to be cruel, but Napoleon bristles visibly before he manages to hide it. "Oh, a lot of the time it feels pretty good, actually." He swings one knee over the other with such expansive, jovial ease that Gaby knows everything he just said is a lie. "And when it doesn't, Well, then I remind myself what I'm doing it for." He nudges Illya's leg with his toes. "We're fighting the good fight, Peril. And if that means I'm occasionally the honey in the trap…" He shrugs. "There are worse things than sleeping with someone I'd rather not."

Illya nods distantly. "The good fight," he repeats softly. "Always the good fight. And we are pawns and all they do is hurt us." He looks up at Napoleon. "Do not let Waverly use you like that anymore. You have not been his property for almost two years. You have choice."

Napoleon blinks. "Why, Peril. I didn't know you cared." He tries for levity, but it only sounds like he means it.

"You are my friend. Of course I care," Illya says it like it's so obvious he can't believe Napoleon asked him.

"Then why didn't you say anything before?"

"Because I did not have choice to say anything before," Illya says. "You are a thief. I am a soldier. I must do what I am told, or people are hurt."

"But you're not a soldier," Napoleon says. "You're a spy."

"I know what I am, Cowboy." Illya grits his teeth. "I hate it. I _hate_ it. How there is no choice." He clenches the knight in one fist. Both his hands are shaking. He stands suddenly. "I am going out. I need air."

"No!" Gaby rockets to her feet and stands in front of him with her legs spread and arms crossed. He could pick her up and set her aside like a doll, but he just crosses his own arms and glares. He has no idea how vulnerable he looks, how much fear, uncertainty and sadness leak through his eyes. He doesn't want to leave; he just doesn't know where to go. "We've already spent half the night waiting for you!" Gaby says. "I am tired and I'm not interested in spending the rest of the night wondering where you are."

"Then don't. Go to bed," Illya says, as if that's the solution to anything.

"Not unless you stay!"

"Don't look at me, Peril." Napoleon's ambled over to join them, standing next to Gaby. He puts his arm around her, reinforcing her little human barrier. He lifts a shoulder. "I happen to agree with her."

Illya bares his teeth in frustration, then exhales and drops his head, pushing his fingers through his hair. "I do not want to talk anymore."

Napoleon scoffs. "I didn't realize you were actually _talking._ "

"Hush," Gaby says to him. Then to Illya: "You don't have to talk. But you have to stay."

Illya looks between them both, his eyes dark and expression inscrutable, then finally gives a single, small nod. "Okay."

"Good. So you can pick up the chess set while Napoleon reheats your dinner," Gaby says crisply. Inside, she thinks the Allies must have felt like this when they won the Second World War.

* * *

Just before dawn someone starts pounding on the front door.

Gaby is out of bed instantly, grabbing the pistol she keeps under her pillow and running into the main room in her men's pajamas. Illya's already there, still dressed. He told her he didn't think he could sleep tonight, and clearly he hasn't.

No one's sleeping now. Napoleon comes in shirtless with a gun of his own. The only one not armed or ready for a fight is Illya. He just walks right up to the door, ignores Gaby and Napoleon's protests, and pulls it open.

Oleg, the troll of a K.G.B. agent Illya reports to, walks in. He's followed by four men in dark suits who fan out silently between them and the door. "Good morning," he says pleasantly.

"What do you want?" Napoleon demands. "Where's Waverly?"

Oleg ignores him. "Time for you to go home, Illya," he says.

Gaby is fluent in Russian now; she knows exactly what he said. She just doesn't understand it. "Illya? What does he mean? What's going on?"

"Take her to the other room," Illya says to Napoleon.

Napoleon just crosses his arms, gun still clutched in one hand like a warning. "No."

Illya's lips pull back over his teeth before he composes himself with obvious effort. "Please."

"I'm sorry, Peril." Napoleon sounds like he means it. "But, no."

"Illya! Tell me what's going on." Gaby still has her gun too, has a brief, vicious fantasy of shooting Oleg right in his smug, leathery face. But all the men with him have suits cut for holsters, and she'd like to live until morning.

"I have to leave," Illya says. He glances at Oleg, who gives him a tiny nod. "They need me at K.G.B.."

" _Why?_ " Napoleon looks exactly as bewildered, furious and afraid as Gaby feels. "Why now? We almost get shot by a sniper this afternoon and suddenly, after six years, they've just decided to take you?" His expression goes black. "No. I'm not standing for this. I'm calling Waverly." He goes towards the phone on the coffee table.

" _Soldat_ ," Oleg says, as if that's truly what Illya is. As if it's his name.

Illya grabs Napoleon's wrist with a bandaged hand as he picks up the phone. "Don't. There is no point. He cannot change this." He glances back at his handler, who gives him another tiny nod.

Gaby feels like she's in a movie where she doesn't know her lines.

Napoleon snatches his hand back, rubbing his wrist and glaring. "You're just going to let him take you? Drag you back to the K.G.B. like a dog on a leash? I thought you didn't like leashes, Peril."

Anger flickers like sparks over Illya's face before he schools his features again. "You do not understand. I told you. I have no choice."

"There's always a choice!"

"Like C.I.A. gave you?"

Napoleon's eyes go wide with shock before they narrow in fury. "At least I _earned_ that deal. I didn't go _begging to—_ "

"Solo, be quiet!" Gaby snaps at him. He shuts up, amazingly enough, even moves out of her way so she can get closer to Illya. "Illya, we don't understand. Why don't you have a choice?"

"Oleg can't just waltz in here and reassign you whenever he wants." Napoleon says. "You didn't sell him your _soul,_ Peril. You've been assigned to U.N.C.L.E.. That takes precedence!"

Oleg just smiles, thin and mean. Hideous little man. "Come now, Illyusha. Say goodbye to your friends." He sounds like he's speaking to a tired child at the park.

"Whatever soul I have they took a long time ago, Cowboy." Illya says. "I need to pack," he tells Oleg.

"You don't need to pack," Oleg says with that same thin, nasty smile. "You know we provide."

Illya's jaw works. His hands curl into white mitten fists at his sides. "My father's watch."

Oleg chuckles, then gestures expansively. "Of course. By all means, Illya," he says with an air of fond indulgence. "Get your father's watch."

"I want to say goodbye," Illya says.

Oleg stops laughing. He regards Illya's carefully blank expression like he's actually debating whether to allow the request. Finally he nods. "I'll be outside. Don't take long." He puts his hands in his trench coat pockets and waits for one of his anonymous suits to open the door. All four men file out with him.

Gaby puts the gun on the coffee table. Her hand aches.

"Go. Run," Napoleon says immediately.

Illya shakes his head. "No, Cowboy. I have to go with him."

"Why? This is your best chance!" Napoleon's eyes are full of incomprehension and hurt. "We'll take the two goons out front, give you as much time as we can, then get Waverly to fix this." He points at the back door. "Get out of here!"

" _No,_ " Illya says loudly. "Waverly can't fix this! I have to go with him," he repeats. "You don't understand."

"Damn right I don't understand!" Napoleon shouts. "You belong with _us!_ We're the best team U.N.C.L.E. has! You…you're important! You can't just leave!"

"You just told me to run away!" Illya gestures sharply at the closed front door. "Isn't that leaving?"

"At least you'd be free!"

" _I will never be free!_ " Illya explodes. Napoleon grabs his wrist before he smashes his fist into the fireplace mantle. Illya glares at him, chest heaving, but doesn't try to wrench his hand away. "I am not free," he says much more quietly. His hands haven't stopped shaking since Oleg came in. "If I run, they will find me. They will always find me. And if I disobey, they—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head.

"What happens if you disobey, Illya?" Gaby asks him. "You disobey all the time."

Illya shakes his head again. "Waverly, maybe. If I have to. Not…not Oleg." 

"What are you afraid of?" Gaby puts her hand on his back, looking up at him. "U.N.C.L.E. has more authority than the C.I.A. or the K.G.B.. Oleg can't hurt us, and he can't take you."

"Let me call Waverly, for God's sake. Sort this mess out," Napoleon says.

"It's not me he will hurt," Illya says. "Please, let me go. I have to go."

Napoleon doesn't release Illya's wrist. Illya could break his hold easily, but he doesn't move his arm. "Who will he hurt?" Napoleon asks. "Who are you talking about? You don't—" He doesn't say, _You don't have anyone else,_ because it's too cruel to say out loud, even if it's true.

"He is my brother," Illya says. "Oleg will hurt my brother, badly. I can't stop it and I can't save him, so I must do what he says. That's why I have to go. I'm sorry."

"What brother?" Napoleon frowns. "You don't have a brother. You had a sister who died before you were born."

"He is not in my file," Illya says. "You are two of the only people in the world who know he exists at all."

"Who is he?" Gaby asks, but now she's remembering a flash of metal in a window. "Yesterday, when you leaped off the balcony, was that him? Were you going to him?"

Illya nods. "He's my brother, Gaby. I cannot let them hurt him."

"So we won't," Napoleon says. "You know where he is, right? So we find him, get him out—"

"We _can't_ ," Illya snarls. "You think I haven't tried? There is no getting out!" He violently slaps his chest with his free hand. "This is my life! This is all I have! _He_ is all I have! When they take me from you, he is all I will have. I can't leave him, and I can't save him! All I can do is keep him safe. And that means I have to go." He swallows. "I am sorry. But I must go."

"We don't want you to leave," Gaby says.

"I know," Illya says thickly. His eyes are red. "I don't want this either. But, he's my brother."

Someone starts knocking on the door.

"He's coming!" Napoleon yells to the front of the house. He lets Illya's wrist go and steps back. "You should get your watch."

Illya nods silently and goes into the bedroom. He comes back wearing his jacket with his watch around his wrist. As soon as he steps into the living room someone knocks at the door again.

"Give him a damn minute!" Gaby shouts.

Illya smiles at her, so much love and grief in it she can feel her heart breaking. "My little chop-shop girl."

"I hate that name." She all but throws herself into his arms.

He lifts her easily, the way he's always done, supporting her with one arm while he hugs her so fiercely it's like he's trying to create an imprint of her on his body. They were almost in love, once. But while he was always, _always_ gentle and kind—and loving—she knew she only ever had part of his heart. Now she thinks she knows why.

 _You can't lose what you don't love_. But Illya does love her, just like he loves Napoleon.

She knows how much he'll lose tonight, because she and Napoleon will lose it too.

He lets her go with aching reluctance. He kisses her, then turns to Napoleon and holds out his hand. "Still a terrible spy, Cowboy."

"That's why we need you, you ass." Napoleon ignores Illya's hand and pulls him into a hug as fierce as the one Illya gave her. Illya holds on just as tightly. "I hated working with you."

"I know." When they finally pull apart, Napoleon cups Illya's face and drops a kiss on his lips. Illya only looks faintly surprised.

"This isn't permanent," Napoleon tells him. "I'm going to call Waverly and we'll get you back."

"Okay." Illya wipes his eyes. He can't quite manage a smile. "Take care of him," he says to Gaby.

"Of course." She doesn't look up because she's wiping her eyes too.

Illya swallows, takes a breath. He looks at them both like he's trying to memorize them, then finally goes to the door. He puts his hand on the knob but keeps it shut. "You are my family," he says.

He opens the door, steps out and shuts it behind him.

* * *

"Why?" is the first thing Illya says when he gets into the back of the sleek black car.

Oleg glances out the window, but it's barely light out and they're driving through a forest. There's nothing to see. Briefly, Illya thinks about killing Uncle and the two Hydra agents in the front seat, then the other two in the car behind them. It would be hours at least before the bodies were found. He could run, just like Napoleon told him to.

But Hydra still has Vanya.

Oleg makes a tsking noise, as if he's disappointed with him. "You know why."

"No. I do not," Illya says tightly. His hands are trembling like leaves; he grips his thighs instead. "I helped you find him. He wanted me to run away with him, but I did not. So, tell me. Why?"

Oleg sighs like being forced to explain is a terrible burden. Illya grips his legs more tightly so he won't grab the man's throat instead. "You and Vanya have been separated for six years. He has grown increasingly erratic and more difficult to control the longer you've been gone. He was missing for more than two weeks when you left that transmitter that allowed us to find him. We actually lost him in New York. He managed to cross the Atlantic without us having any idea. If you hadn't done your duty as a Soldier yesterday, we would still not know where he was and would possibly have never found him at all. This must not continue."

 _I helped him,_ Illya tells himself. _He was confused and lost and now he can go home._ Hydra hurts them, but it's their anchor. It has given them a place in the world for their entire lives. They are helping shape the century.

But all Illya can think of is Vanya's certainty that he was a different man—that they were both different men—but Hydra made them not remember. It's impossible. But….

It's impossible. But Illya is still somehow sure he betrayed him.

"Are you going to use me to punish him?" It's easy to keep his voice even. He's not even afraid. He's been hurt so often that he scarcely knows what other people mean by pain anymore. But he's a good spy. He's mostly managed to avoid being hurt for a long time. He doesn't want to get used to it again.

"Not unless we have to," Oleg says. He pats Illya on the knee. "The Winter Soldier still thinks of you as his brother. We can use that to make him more tractable."

Illya frowns at him in the dark. "He is my brother."

Oleg smirks and pats his knee again. Illya forces himself not to jerk his leg away. "Of course he is." He gives Illya's leg an affectionate squeeze. It makes Illya's skin crawl. "I'm sure you're looking forward to seeing him again."

Illya is. That's the only good part of this. "What about my team?"

"What team? Oh—you mean U.N.C.L.E." Oleg smirks again. It drags like sandpaper up Illya's spine. "Don't worry, little Bull. You won't even have time to miss them."

* * *

Napoleon does exactly what he said and calls Waverly as soon as they can't hear the cars' tires anymore. Waverly is furious that Oleg would steal one of his top agents like that, promises he'll make things right immediately. But he can't find him.

No one can find him. It's like Illya disappeared off the Earth. No one knows his name; there are no records of him outside of what U.N.C.L.E. has on file. There has never been a K.G.B. agent named Illya Kuryakin. They were a team for six years, and now he's nothing but a ghost; a rumor who only exists in one thin folder and their memories.

Napoleon never stops looking for him. A year passes, and then three, and then ten and he still carries Illya's picture to ask, _have you seen him?_. He still hunts for files, still slips Illya's name into his conversations.

Gaby has always been more practical. She mourns for her lost friend, accepts her grief and lets him go. Eventually it's not so painful to think of him.

Waverly retires and Gaby replaces him. Napoleon retires to a mansion in Italy he shouldn't be able to afford. She visits as often as she can, given her work. He seems happy.

Whenever she mentions Illya he changes the subject.

More years pass and U.N.C.L.E. becomes a unit of S.H.I.E.L.D. Gaby stays as unit leader under Peggy Carter, the head of S.H.I.E.L.D.. 

She likes Peggy a great deal. Peggy has a pragmatism Gaby appreciates, and she knows exactly what it's like to fight for every inch of responsibility and every iota of respect. Gaby's battlefield is behind the Iron Curtain, whereas Peggy's was behind enemy lines. But Gaby's done her share of saving the world, and they both know that war, any kind of war, requires sacrifice.

They rarely talk about it, but they also have their grief in common.

It's 1989 and they're both in Washington D.C.. Tomorrow is the first all-unit meeting at the nearly completed Triskelion. They're having coffee on the patio of a café while Gaby enjoys the sunshine and Peggy rants about Howard Stark. He's managed to make another genius scientist angry enough to resign. This is the kind of thing he does frequently, apparently, but Henry Pym will be much harder to replace than most. Peggy is very, very pissed about it.

Gaby listens to her friend and interjects where necessary. Mostly she watches the sidewalk, because she's been a spy for over twenty-six years and old habits have kept her alive. So she's casually scanning the sidewalk, not expecting anything. The Cold War is almost over and it's a beautiful, sunny day. But that does nothing to alter the ice-water shock of recognition when she sees Illya Kuryakin walking past.

"I'm sorry, I have to go," she says, interrupting her friend and superior mid-sentence, already standing, snagging her purse by the handle as she runs. The gate to the patio is too far so she just hand leaps the little ornamental fence in her day dress, makes sure to land on the toes of her high-heeled shoes.

She keeps running on her toes, then kicks the fucking shoes off when they slow her down. It can't be him. It's impossible. _Impossible._ The man is too young; there's no reason for him to be here; He's _dead_. He must be dead, because he said she and Napoleon were his family and how could he not come back after that?

But she's never forgotten his height, or the way his feet struck the ground when he walked, or how he'd stuff his fists into his pockets when he was upset. Or the astonishing ice blue of his eyes.

She had forgotten how quickly he could walk, damn it. He's not even hurrying, but his legs are so much longer than hers. He's heading for the nearest Metro station. If she doesn't catch up to him before then, she might never.

"Illya!" she yells at the top of her lungs. "Illya! _Illya!_ " Strangers are looking at her, and Gaby is very, very aware that she's just blown away any hope he had of staying inconspicuous. But he can't be Illya, because Illya is older and vanished and dead—

Except he stops in the middle of the street and turns around. And he has the same scar next to his right eye.

"Illya! Illya! Oh, my God. It's you!" Gaby stops, panting. She reaches for him, half afraid he'll disappear like mist in sunlight.

He jerks back in quiet alarm, yanking his hands out of his pockets like he thinks he'll need to fight. "Who are you?" he hisses. "Why do you know me?" His accent is different, she thinks, maybe not as pronounced. Or maybe she remembers it wrong after nearly 30 years.

"I'm Gaby! Gaby Teller?" She knows her hair is shorter now, silver poking through the brown. She's not as thin as she was, not as pretty—age is kind to no one—but she's not so different as to be completely unrecognizable. "I'm Gaby Teller," she repeats, because all she can see on his face is bewilderment and fear. 

"I don't know any Gaby Tellers," he says. He keeps looking over his shoulder, like he's figuring out the best direction to run. "What do you want? Why are you following me?"

"I'm not going to hurt you," she says, despite how absurd it is. She's more than twenty years older than he is and less than half his size; of course she can't hurt him. "Illya, don't you remember me at all? We used to work together! You, me and Napoleon."

He blinks, then glances at her ruined stockings and complete lack of shoes. His expression changes to one of wary sympathy. "I'm sorry," he says, more kindly now, "but I can't help you."

"I'm not crazy!" she snaps. "I'm talking about Napoleon Solo. We worked together! Wait." She grabs for his left wrist and manages to snag it before he can pull his arm away. He's practically vibrating with tension, but he doesn't move. He was always so gentle with her, despite his size and strength and all the terrible things he knew how to do. "Your watch!" She shoves his sleeve back triumphantly. "You told—" She stares down at it in confusion. "This isn't it. This is wrong." She looks up at him again. "What happened to the watch your father gave you?"

He extracts his wrist from her grip, so deft and careful she barely notices he moved. "My father never gave me a watch. You have the wrong man."

"No I don't!" she insists, desperate now. "Your scar! That scar next to your eye. It's the same. All of you is the same. How is that possible? What happened to you?"

"Gaby!" Peggy calls from behind her.

"Over here!" she calls over her shoulder. Her attention is diverted for less than a second, but when she looks back he's gone. "No, No! Illya! _Illya!_ " she yells into the crowd. "ILLYA!"

"Gaby." Peggy reaches her, takes her arm to turn her around. Gaby's shoes are dangling from her hand. The late afternoon crowd parts and reforms around them like the sea. "What happened? Why did you run off like that? Who was that man?"

"I don't know." Gaby grips Peggy's arms, distressingly close to tears. "I thought he was Illya. He looked…he looked just like him—" Her voice cracks over a threatening sob, and she grits her teeth until she can speak again. "I thought he was someone I knew."

"Oh, Gaby." Peggy hugs her right there in the middle of the sidewalk. "I can't tell you how many times that's happened to me. You hear a voice, or glimpse someone with the right height or right color hair, and then of course they're complete strangers and you feel like an utter fool."

Gaby nods, then murmurs, "Thank you" when Peggy gives her a tissue from her purse. Of course he was a stranger. His voice wasn't the same, she's almost sure of it. And he was quite obviously too young. Naturally he would have seemed taller if she wasn't wearing shoes. Illya is not that rare a name.

She was probably just imagining his scar.

"I certainly feel like a fool," she says, wiping her eyes. She takes a deep breath, forces herself to smile. "I'm sorry. I ran off before we could finish our coffee."

"Bugger the coffee," Peggy says. "I want a drink." She hands Gaby her shoes.

Gaby laughs, and if it's a bit wet Peggy is too good a friend to notice. "Alcohol sounds like a brilliant idea."

**Epilogue**

"You know, if you keep showing up like this, everyone's going to think you're my boyfriend."

"How lucky for you," Illya says, giving Claire one of his exquisite smiles, even if it's fake. She's seen enough of those ones lately that she can tell. He grabs her jacket off the hanger with a flourish and holds it for her.

"Thank you." She ducks her head and smiles in something she refuses to call fond exasperation as she puts her hands in the sleeves and he slides the jacket up her arms. "So," she says as she pulls her hair out of the collar. "Where are we going?"

"Cemetery," he says. He sounds ridiculously casual, but when she turns to him in astonishment he won't meet her eyes.

"Cemetery?" She blinks at him, or she would if his eyes were focused anywhere near her. "Why are we going to a cemetery?"

He takes a breath. "So I can say goodbye."

Oh. "I'm sorry."

He nods. "Me too." He scrapes his fingers through his hair. "I did not want to go alone. You are…." He finally looks at her again, but his smirk is pained and self-depreciating. "You are my only friend."

"That, my friend," she says pointedly, reaching up to fix his collar, "is because you don't talk to anyone else."

"Everyone else is stupid."

Claire shakes her head, then smooths her palms down his shoulders and leaves them there. "I know you've lost everyone you cared about. I can't even imagine how that would feel, how much it would hurt. But trying to close off your heart isn't going to make it better."

Illya moves away from her. "We should go before it gets too dark." He offers his arm with another beautiful and completely unreal smile. "Shall we?"

Claire takes his arm and lets him lead her out of the clinic like they're in some kind of Victorian romance novel. He waits while she locks the door behind her, then offers his arm again as they walk to the subway.

"Have you called Matt?" she asks as casually as humanly possible. 

"No," he says, just as casually.

Illya keeps his head up, so she's basically having a conversation with the underside of his jaw. "He needs to know what he is, Illya."

"You tell him, then. He trusts you."

Claire supposes that's true—Matt trusts her as much as he trusts anyone—but. "He won't believe me. Not a story like that. He'll believe you."

"It will not help him to know."

She doesn't bother suppressing her sigh. "You called him your 'little brother', Illya. Shouldn't he at least know _that?_ " She stops, tugging on his tree branch of an arm until he finally looks down at her. "He spent most of his life alone. You have a connection with him he shares with no-one else in the entire world. And you're so lonely that you're taking me on a date to a graveyard—"

He rolls his eyes. "This is not 'date'."

"Fine. It's not a date. But you know what I mean." Claire keeps her grip on his arm tight so he can't pull away. "You're not protecting anyone by staying alone, Illya. Not even you."

He doesn't answer right away. She can practically hear him thinking. "I am tired of pain, Claire," he says quietly. "I am tired of grief. I lost my parents when I was five. I had lost all my brothers but Vanya by the time I was thirteen. Then they took him from me too. Gaby and Napoleon were…." He shakes his head. "I will never see them again. All I have left are their graves." He takes a breath. "I am tired of grieving."

"I get it," she says. "I really do." She wraps her other arm around his, which is probably as close to a hug as he'll accept right now. "But all you're doing is exchanging pain for pain."

He shrugs. "At least this is pain I have chosen."

"You could choose to be happy instead."

He doesn't answer.

 _All right,_ Claire thinks. _All right._ She's lost this battle, she knows. But that still leaves the war. "Tell me about Gaby," she says.

"She was like you," he says immediately. "Only smaller." And he almost really smiles.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> I promise that things will get better! Just, not in this story.
> 
> [I have a Tumblr!](http://taste-is-sweet.tumblr.com/) Where I post a lot of happy stuff, even! (And if you enjoy Alternate Universes, come check out [WhatIfAU](https://whatifau.tumblr.com/)!)


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